


your son is

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Growing Up, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 00:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: Your son is seven, and the dead tree behind your house is in flames. You don’t know where he found the book, or how he read the cramped, illegible scrawl in a long-dead language, or how he turned the words into more than empty, awkward sounds in his child’s mouth. But there is your son, and there is the book – and there is the tree, the fire consuming it reflected in his eyes.(You think, for the first time, that this child you have made may be destined for something more than a lifetime of farming; you think, for the first time, that you may be out of your depth.)





	your son is

Your son is an hour old, and he is perfect. You adore him, every inch, from the pink of his tiny, scrunched toes to the frown of his hairless brow. He is small, unusually quiet, and has his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s copper hair. You think that, perhaps, he is the most perfect thing you will ever make.

-

Your son is seven, and the dead tree behind your house is in flames. You don’t know where he found the book, or how he read the cramped, illegible scrawl in a long-dead language, or how he turned the words into more than empty, awkward sounds in his child’s mouth. But there is your son, and there is the book – and there is the tree, the fire consuming it reflected in his eyes.

(You think, for the first time, that this child you have made may be destined for something more than a lifetime of farming; you think, for the first time, that you may be out of your depth.)

-

Your son is fifteen, and he has been chosen for the Soltryce Academy. You learned your letters, some simple maths, from the grandmother of a childhood friend a few doors down – you can hardly fathom your son attending any sort of school, let alone an academy for magic. But he has been selected, along with two other children from the town, and attend he will; the town has paid handsomely for them to do so, from the pockets of farmers with little to spare, a swell of support for the prides and joys of Blumenthal.

(You do not want to let him leave, because he is your son, and you love him; because there are more more magics in the world than just book-learning, and your nights have been plagued by nightmares of your son’s screams for weeks. You want to let him leave, because he is your son, and you are out of your depth; because there are more magics in the world than just book-learning, and you see fire behind your eyelids when you sleep.)

-

Your son is sixteen, and he has been chosen again. This time, it is by a man called Trent Ikithon, who comes to your house with long, expensive robes and long, white hair and a kind sort of smile that is, somehow, difficult to believe. He drinks tea with you, tells you that your son is exceptional, and when he leaves there is a bag of more gold pieces than you have seen in your life sat on your kitchen table.

(You tell yourself you believe the smile. You tell yourself the money is not payment. You tell yourself this man has not just purchased of your son for a handful of golden coins.)

-

Your son is sixteen and a half, and home visiting for Winter’s Crest, and when he comes downstairs for breakfast one morning he looks at you like you are strangers. He looks at you like he is afraid – not of you, but for you. He looks at you like he is a righteous man, pitying the sinners, and you struggle to find any hint of the solemn child with fire in his eyes from so long ago.

(You do not know it then, but this is the beginning of the end; you have already lost him. You have already sold him on. He is no longer your son.)

-

Your son is seventeen, and your house is on fire. The flames lick up the walls, eat hungrily through the wood, through the furniture, through the blankets on the bed. Across the floor. You would recognise this magic anywhere, and the thought is near enough to drive you mad as the fire begins to eat through you as well. Perhaps you scream. Perhaps you do not. Perhaps, it does not matter, because-

Your son is seventeen, and he is standing outside, and he is screaming as he watches the blaze eat your house down to ashes and bone.

**Author's Note:**

> come check me out @sparxwrites on tumblr for more (assuming the site hasn't self-cannibalised between drafting and posting this)


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